“Long story short, I found out you had no accommodations to get to Chicago, and since the Archer Aviation plane is being used by a team of executives for an investor meeting, I chartered a jet for Friday. Be ready by twelve o’clock. A car will be picking you guys up at your respective apartments. You andVivienne will have to attend a few mandatory talks for appearance’s sake, but other than that, you’re presenting on Sunday.”
My eyes snap up to Vivienne’s, who’s wearing the same expression she had when Audrey suggested airplane watching. There’s a slight panic to her features, one that would be undetectable if you didn’t know her well.
While there’s still so much left for me to learn about the enigma that is Vivienne Brown, she showed me a different side of her last night—the deeper parts that she mostly keeps to herself.
And fuck it, if she couldn’t tolerate the idea of plane watching or the Archer Aviation exhibit, there’s no way she’ll be able to make it to the conference by flight.
“Don’t worry about it. We’ll take the car.” I tell my cousin once I’ve made up my mind.
Melanie, who was spitting out more details about the conference at rapid-fire speed, stops instantly. The silence that follows is so sharp, even the birds chirping outside seem to fall quiet.
“What are you talking about?” She scoffs in disbelief. “New York City to Chicago is a twelve-hour drive.”
“As I said, there’s no need to worry about it. I’ll take care of the logistics.”
“Nate. No. Absolutely not. You are crazy if—”
I hang up without hesitation, glad that everything has been sorted out—only to stumble backward.
I look down to see Vivienne’s hands on my chest, and her eyes narrowed in distaste.
“What is wrong with you?” She pushes me again—anger, confusion, and disbelief all mixed in one. “Why are we suddenly road-tripping to Chicago? You have a jet. Supposedly a comfortable place to sleep on said nice jet. Why are you taking the car?”
I quirk a brow, stunned.
Vivienne is a stubborn one—that’s for sure—and for some reason, incapable of accepting help. The answer as to why we’re road-tripping is obvious, and she knows it.
“How were you planning on getting there?” I spin the question back to her.
She crosses her arms over her chest, lips turned downward. It’s meant to show disapproval, but all I can think about is how adorable she looks when mad. It reminds me a lot of how she was when we first met.
“You can’t inconvenience yourself for me. I won’t allow it.”
I get where she’s coming from—she doesn’t want to feel like a burden on others, and it explains why she never opens up about her emotions. But I care enough about this girl to want to see her happy and calm. Never in a million years would I subject her to something she can’t bear.
“Why not?” I ask.
“I can’t take turns driving. My license expired years ago, and I never renewed it.”
“Who said I was going to let you drive?”
“You can’t drive for that long. It’s unreasonable.”
“Would you believe me if I said I was a truck driver in a past life?” She hits my arm at how seriously I ask that question, and it pulls a smile from my lips. “Plus, I’m sort of a firm believer that women can’t drive.”
Vivienne chokes back a laugh, the downturn to her lips slowly turning upward as she shakes her head in disbelief. “I-I can’t even argue with you on that one. Last time I drove, I hit the curb so hard, I got a flat tire and called my dad in a panic to help.”
Her laughter grows, the words getting lost somewhere in the mix. The sound is so rich, so intoxicating that I can’t stop myself from laughing as well.
“He tried explaining to me how to inflate a tire, but after too many failed attempts, he drove to me. My mom was in the car with him. She brought us back home while he took care of the rest.”
At this point, tears of what I can only assume are a mix of longing, sadness, and laughter are streaming down her face. I cradle her jaw, wiping them away with my thumbs.
Vivienne’s laugh eventually turns into a snort, causing her eyes to widen in panic, while I only smile harder.
The story itself is nice—funny and sweet, on all accounts—but it’s more so the fact that she’s sharing this with me that makes me feel at ease. I want her to be herself around me, not the version she puts on for the world.
She’s still catching her breath from the high when the door to my bedroom swings wide open. We jump away from each other at the intrusion, and there she is—the one and only, Natalia Archer. She’s holding a white box tied with a pretty black bow, her smile impossibly wide.
